Eric Flint - 1812 - The Rivers of War

Perhaps he should take up another line of work. He was beginning to think like a bloody parson.

Tiana didn't shed many tears, for it wasn't her way. And by late afternoon she was smiling half the time, in any event.

Word had come back. A runner sent by Houston to Tiana herself. Ross was surprised that such a young man enjoying such a splendid victory should have been so thoughtful.

Patrick was still alive. He hadn't even lost any more limbs, amazingly enough.

She ordered pastries, too, for anyone who wanted to sit at the table and chat.

Chat with Ross, not her. The other half of the time, her eyes blue and empty, she was staring at the river. Houston's runner had also told her about the death of her brother.

Although Tiana herself did not participate in the conversation, a number of New Orleans matrons took her up on the offer of pastries. Most of them, speculatively eyeing the perhaps-eligible British officer whose uniform had sent them screaming away in the morning.

TheRiversofWar

Mobile Bay

"So we finally caught Jackson napping," Admiral Cochrane said with satisfaction. From his position on the walls of Fort Bowyer, he was looking north across Mobile Bay.

"Indeed so," said Pakenham. "Almost all of his troops remain in New Orleans. Still entrenched at the Jackson Line and in Fort St. John, according to the reports I've received. Apparently, he's convinced we intend to assemble a fleet of flat-bottom boats and attack him through Lake Pontchartrain."

The admiral was literally rubbing his hands with glee. "By the time he gets here-if he even tries at all-Mobile will be ours. And with it," Cochrane gloated, "the open road to New Orleans."

Pakenham smiled. "Well, it's hardly an 'open road,' sir. And the distance is probably close to two hundred miles, the way the army will have to march."

But his own expression was sanguine, as he gazed over the bay. "Still, it's vastly superior terrain to what we faced along the Mississippi. No swamps and-best of all-plenty of room to maneuver. Let Jackson try to match us on open ground, for a change."

Two days later, before the assault on Mobile could be launched, the HMS Brazen arrived with the news.

A peace treaty had been signed at Ghent. The war with the United States was over.

"So it is," Pakenham remarked stoically. He watched as his men rolled two casks of rum up to the gangplank, where the sailors would take charge of them.

"I'll ask you to handle these with dignity, sir," Pakenham said to the frigate's captain. "Contained within are the mortal remains of two of the finest regimental commanders Britain has ever had serve her colors. Colonels Thornton and Rennie."

"Aye, General. I'll see to it."

As the casks were hoisted into the ship, Pakenham felt a deep sadness. Thornton and Rennie, both gone. Not to mention hundreds of other brave men-more than a thousand, counting the earlier casualties at Bladensburg and the Capitol.

And for what?

There were times he found being a professional soldier rather trying.

Cochrane, standing next to him, seemed to understand his sentiments.

"Look at it this way, General. It's just part of the cost of building and maintaining the reputation and morale of a great army. Navy, too. There'll be other wars to come, when we'll need that."

Pakenham sighed. "Yes, Admiral. Exactly what I was telling myself."

A month later, Pakenham was feeling much better. Admiral Cochrane's stoic analysis had been proven right-and far sooner than Pakenham would have thought possible.

The major general got the news while he and his men were still aboard ship sailing back to England. Napoleon had escaped from his exile on the island of Elba and landed back in France just two weeks earlier. From there, it seemed, he was making his way to Paris, rallying his forces.

The war was on again. The dispatch ordered Pakenham to report to Wellington as soon as he arrived in England.

He had to restrain himself from crushing the dispatch in his fist, out of sheer exultation.

"A real war, by God!" he exclaimed to Gibbs. "No more of that miserable business with Cousin Jonathan."

TheRiversofWar

New Orleans

"Well, your whole country's erupting with joy, it seems like," Robert Ross remarked. "Not only is the war over, but it ended with a victory for you here in New Orleans. My congratulations, Colonel Houston."

The British general plopped the newspaper he'd been reading onto the wrought-iron table. "That calls for a drink, I'd say. My own people in England will be happy enough, too, even if it didn't end the way we'd have preferred. Still, it was never a popular war, back home, and now it's over."

Ross swiveled in his chair-also wrought iron-and caught the attention of one of the waiters who were moving among the tables on the Plaza de Armas. It was a sunny day, and the city's central square was packed with people. Fortunately, the cafes lining the square had showed the forethought to employ extra servants this day.

Houston grinned wryly. "The whole country except here." His chin swept around in a little quarter circle, indicating the crowd in the plaza. "These folks're here because it's a sunny day, is all. No end to the war in New Orleans."

Ross smiled. The rest of the United States might be celebrating the end of the war, and-a rare occasion, this!-hailing the heroic city of New Orleans for its valiant stand against the invader. But the acclaimed city itself was groaning under the lash of tyranny.

"How long do you suppose the general will maintain martial law?" he asked Houston. His casual tone made the question out to be an idle one. It wasn't a British officer's business, after all, to pry into the affairs of a republic with which his country was now at peace. Especially when that republic-one of its cities, at least-was chafing under the rule of a tyrant. New Orleans took to "martial law" about as well as a drunk takes to a temperance speech.

Sam shrugged, still grinning. "With Andy Jackson, who knows? His position is that until official word of the treaty arrives, he has no way of knowing whether the war is really over or not."

Houston pointed a big, accusing forefinger at the newspaper that was lying on the table. "Those are full of lies, you know. At least three-quarters full, these days, to hear the general. Who's to say that this isn't all part of a dastardly British scheme to get him to lower his defenses, while you prepare to strike a new and treacherous blow?"

His grin had steadily widened throughout. By the end, Ross was almost grinning himself.

"Indeed. I will say that I'm dazzled to discover-for the first time in my life-that we British have the wherewithal to plot and carry through such an all-encompassing scheme. Not only can we suborn newspapers-a scurvy lot of knaves, newspapermen, it's true enough-but even your own judges and magistrates, as well."

At that, Houston laughed aloud. Jackson had ordered one of the city's news reporters thrown in jail for writing an article that referred to him as a "despot." The newspaper had taken the issue to court, whereupon Judge Dominick Hall had promptly ruled in favor of the reporter and ordered Jackson to release him from custody.

Whereupon-just as promptly-Jackson had thrown Judge Hall into jail.

Houston started to speak again, but broke off when his eye spotted something.

Hastily, the young colonel rose to his feet. Rose, at least, in a manner of speaking. His stance, once he was out of the chair, was more in the way of a crouch than Houston's normally erect posture.

"Just realized that I've got a pressing errand to run. Must be off. General, my regards." A quick nod to the other occupants of the table. "Tiana. James."